


I Remember That Night, I Just Might (Rewind)

by imitationicarus



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Ending, Alternate History, Angst, Character Death, John is a mad man, Language, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Sadness, duel, pairing - Freeform, stop challenging people to duels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-25
Updated: 2017-07-09
Packaged: 2018-11-18 23:32:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 11
Words: 12,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11301105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imitationicarus/pseuds/imitationicarus
Summary: In 1782, history has written John Laurens died in combat at the Combahee River in South Carolina. But is everything written in stone? This story pursues the idea that John Laurens and Philip Hamilton are spiritually connected; and not only does John survive the fatal shot that killed him, but he goes on to change the entirety of the American history we learned in school.





	1. It All Began Here, 1782

1782, a year marked by streamers and empty party rooms after the last song was played. A time of celebration in ’81 simply led into the intoxicating hangover of ’82. Not everyone had the luxury of cheering victory at Yorktown, or even knew there was reason to pop the confetti and bust out the alcohol.

The year of 1782 was a haze, a drunken haze for Alexander Hamilton after surviving the bliss of the British defeat. And it became nothing more than that, until a celebratory and private toast in the safety of his study was interrupted by a letter.

A letter not from John Laurens. From Henry. The father the father that really had no love for his abolitionist son (A/N)—Eliza’s face was a pale reflection of Alex’s; there was shaking, shuddering as the glass lay abandoned, hands grasping and wringing the letter like it would wring out the sadness and produce new meaning.

Lieutenant Colonel John Laurens, killed in action, not knowing America had already been freed.

Alexander wished more than anything that he was intoxicated, that he was so disoriented that he could not comprehend the ceaseless mummers and caresses from his wife, so swept away by alcohol that 1782 could just—

_Rewind._

_Rewind._

Alexander folded the letter and returned it to Eliza, who slipped it back in its envelope. With a flutter, her powdered blue dress flew from the room like Wendy to Neverland, and the lost boy reached for his glass again, the celebration of Yorktown still on his mind. The haze settled again, thick and muggy, and it left him with a faint taste of a hangover when Eliza returned to his office once again.

“Alexander, a letter has arrived,” she spoke softly.

Her husband’s eyes were fixated on the dark amber of his victory toast, a smile twisting his face.

“It’s from John Laurens, I’ll read it later,” he said in one breath, consumed for a moment by the name but managed to stagnate back to earth before Eliza noticed.

The moment was that simple. It was as if a balloon was released to the sky, and when Alexander jumped up to catch it, his fingers successfully snagged the cord.

“It’s not from John…”

Alexander twisted his head, searching his wife’s eyes for an answer she would not give unless it be her words. He swallowed softly and eyed the letter, folded and creased from someone’s pocket. He often had seen similar letters in the war, carried by couriers to the families waiting for news of death.

“Will you read it for me… please…?”

He could have been shot 12 times in a British volley before Eliza managed to get the letter open. She began plainly from the top, her petticoat rustling as she walked up behind his chair.

The brown liquid of his toast reflected them both, a woman with love for her circumstance and a man with love for all those not near him.

“Excuse me for writing to you, Mr. Hamilton, but I have received your name from my eldest brother. At a recent engagement at the Combahee River in South Carolina, Lieutenant Colonel John Laurens was shot critically.”

There it was, the dreadful, sinking feeling that bleached the blissful hangover from Alexander’s mind. He started fiddling with his sleeves, tapping his foot, anything to keep his mind defensive against the blow that was sure to come.

“A few retreating soldiers and I returning home managed to take the Lieutenant Colonel back to Virginia with us to avoid more confrontation. He did receive the best treatment in the South at my parent’s planation.” Eliza’s voice quivered like sheers against the string holding her husband’s heart together.

_I’m doing everything I can, but the wound was already infected when he arrived._

_Rewind._

“He’s expected to pull through the injury. I await further orders. Your friendly Virginian, Francis Madison.”

A letter. A letter not from John Laurens. From Francis Madison, the brother of James. Eliza studied Alex’s face as he snatched the letter, folding it and unfolding it in disbelief as his toast laid abandoned. His wife quietly folded her hands over her stomach to quell the sickness she felt imaging the loss of a dear friend as Alex shot from his seat, frisking the envelope for an address.

“I must head to Virginia and bring Laurens back.”

It’s uncertain who Alex was convincing, himself or Eliza as he bounded around the room, cramming papers and quills and ink wells into a bag.

“I must bring him back here so he doesn’t have to suffer in the South alone—“

“Alex.”

Only then did he stop at the sound of her lovely voice, wondering if he’s too obvious, if he went too far, if she saw it all with her eyes—

She smiled softly, sweetly. She took one hand in her own. “Bring John home.”

1782 was the—the year—a— maneuver by Nathaniel ~~Green~~ would end end end bring an end to John ~~Laurens~~ ’ life—dead

_Rewind._

1782 was the year Alexander Hamilton traveled to Virginia to bring John Laurens, the war veteran, home.

_Un deux trois…_

_Rewind._

**_(A/N): Though this statement is not entirely true, I do believe there was serious tension in the Laurens family in regard to John’s non-conforming beliefs._ **


	2. These Seeds We Plant

Alexander was so scatterbrained, he could hardly remain settled in the carriage ride to Virginia long enough not to tip the wooden contraption over, let alone have enough mind and self-preservation to ride horseback, though it would be easier. He sat scribbling furiously in his seat, his bounding foot doing nothing to destroy the lines of inquiry. They were letters to Washington, to Eliza, and bitterly to South Carolina, although he saved that one for last and did it with the

He sat scribbling furiously in his seat, his bounding foot doing nothing to destroy the lines of inquiry. They were letters to Washington, to Eliza, and bitterly to South Carolina, although he saved that one for last and did it with the upmost pain. He was still scribbling when the coachman, a local man he scooped up at a tavern pulled the horse to a stop. The ink hardly had time to dry as Alex shoved it in his bag.

"Here's the Madison estate Mr.—" the coachman turned, but the young man had already leaped from the carriage and was barreling down the path, leaving a pouch of coins and note with a time to return. The coachman grumbling collected the items, muttering his amazement to why the boy could not speak his request instead of writing it down in such a heavy and sloshed penmanship; it looked like he used half the well on the simple request!

What a sight Alexander Hamilton made on that sweltering, reflective Virginia mug of August 1782.

He made more of a spectacle of himself going down the Madison's drive, dropping things from his not latched bag only to whirl around and spew more on the ground, then he did when he realized he would be late for Philip's birth. With a curse, he scooped up his belongings in both arms, shoving them back into the bag as the slaves in the nearby fields stopped their work to notice him.

_His dream of freedom for these men dies with him._

_Rewind._

For a moment, Alex paused, his eyes meeting with one of the slaves. A strong face and piercing eyes watched back, both human, yet before them stood an invisible barrier. And if Alex listened long enough, he could hear John banging on that barrier, opening a gap wide enough to let some men through.

Because John Laurens survived, his unit would still be intact. Alex gave a small nod to the slave and tucked his chin down to continue his war path, missing the knowing nod he was returned.

Boys—or at least, Alex's definition of them, ranging anywhere from 10 to their late twenties by his calculation—were lounging on the porch, their bare feet kicked up and their chatter ringing out the countryside.

Alex approached quietly, and noticing him, they attempted to send a slave to fetch his things. The writer refused.

"Thank you, but I can carry it."

And he almost shrunk away, feeling as if he offended them when all the Madison boys stood up and made him feel so tiny. He couldn't help but chuckle nervously.

"How in the world is James so small..?"

This got the brothers laughing, resolving the social tension within him. Now all was left was the worry, the insistent worrying…

"Is Francis here...?" 

One of the lanker ones, starting to shed a revolutionary jacket into threads, extended a hand. Alex shook it.

"I'm Francis," He explained, "Captain. Please, come inside Mr. Hamilton. My father isn't home."

James Madison Sr. didn't save any expense for his family, Alex gawked as he was led inside. He would never understand why Virginians needed more rooms then they could live in.

"The Lieutenant Colonel is upstairs in the third room," The second oldest Madison takes Alex's bag and coat from him, "He may be sleeping, but you can see him."

"Thank you." He swallowed hard, maybe too hard, pleading internally that the family didn't catch the sweep in his eyes as he looked to the staircase or the heavy pound in his heart when he let it sink in that he was truly there. Before he sunk too far, he dug around in the bag in Francis's hand to produce the three letters.

"Do one of you mind delivering these letters for me? I'll pay you for the trouble."

A younger boy snatched the letters as Francis shook his head. "We won't accept any payment of the sort Mr. Hamilton. We will gladly do this."

With that, the haze settled in, like it was only Alex and John Laurens in the house fit for kings. He couldn't ogle over the staircase or the lavish pictures or the slaves working quietly as mice out of view.

He glided up the stairs, and if he didn't have some awareness to make sure he didn't bump into a wall or chest, he would assume he was flying.

The third door.

One, two, three.

_Un, deux, trois…_

_Rewind._

He quietly nudged the door open and peeked inside. He couldn't breathe, could never breathe when his eyes were on him.

The curtains were drawn in the room, but a lamp burned lowly next to the quilted bedside of John Laurens. His freckled face was a lighter shade then he remembered—if caressed, he could be assured it was just as soft. His body slumped against the pillows, and his hair wilted in thick curly strands from his ponytail. But then his eyes traveled far enough, to the open shirt and cotton bandages and the way John took painful inhales, even in the respite of sleep. Alex stepped into the room and shut the door softly.

Whenever the door was closed, the secrets couldn't get out.

He quietly crossed the room and tugged a chair close to the bedside. He fell into it in the same motion of scooping up one pale hand, so surprisingly warm and forgiving after grabbing onto death. Alex felt a weight shrugged off his shoulder, feeling for himself that John Laurens was alive again that he couldn't help but pull that palm to his face, pressing a soft kiss to the skin. The next peck went to his wrist, and he could feel the pitter patter of his heart.

This was real… Alex sucked in a harsh breath.

This was real. John Laurens lived.

_Rewind._

Alexander Hamilton nearly cried when John Laurens' eyes fluttered open. His mind was making leaps and bounds, so many questions he wanted to make, to ask him what happened and who was to blame, to proclaim he would duel them and make them pay, to cry and to tell him he could not live without him—and then Laurens smiled softly, and Alex was helpless.

"Hey Alex…" John croaked.

All this waiting and worrying and traveling somehow even left Alexander speechless.

"John…"

"How did you know...?" His voice was such a soft murmur that Alex had to lean forward to catch it.

John Laurens was never frail, never weak; and yet here he was, wilting in the Virginia weather as if there was nothing more to do. It took Alex a moment to realize he didn't say a word to answer the question.

"Sorry… I just… Francis Madison wrote a letter. I came as soon as I could John," he explained, giving the hand a squeeze that was reciprocated, hoping the explanation was enough.

The Lieutenant Colonel eased himself into a sitting position, though not without the twinges of pain and an Alexander hovering anxiously at his side, urging him to to move in fear of watching him bleed out before his very eyes. He could not imagine holding someone so dearly loved in his arms, clutching death so intimately and clinging to it so hard it felt more like a memory.

_Even before we got to ten… I was aiming for the sky…_

_Rewind._

Those few moments of reprise were bliss for the two. And then the door slammed open and Hamilton leaped like a cat as far as he could from John Laurens, and everything changed.

Laurens smoothed the bedsheets, and Alexander slicked back his hair nervously as a younger Madison—which one, he could not be for certain, there was too many of them—was pronged to the doorway and struggling to suck in a breath.

"Is everything alright?" Alex's eyes tugged on Laurens', asking if he knew the answers; and when he got a shrug, he turned his attention back to the Madison as he straightened up, composure settling back in.

"I delivered your message sir," He started, weaving his hands through his hair, "But there was already a message waiting to be delivered to you."

Hamilton approached his friend's bedside again as his instinct grappled for control, screaming protect as his eyes narrowed and his mind hardened on one face.

"Was it from Henry Laurens?" He asked, studying as John's shoulders shivered, wishing he could wrap him up in his arms and constrict him with love and tenderness and not societal restrictions—but he doesn't. He stayed still, fingers twitching. Listening.

And for once in his life, waiting.

The Madison explained, "It's an emergency, you must return home at once."

Alexander sucked in a breath that decayed into a small chuckle. Naturally, he could imagine all the people who assumed he was in Virginia for work. Angelica, Eliza, sending word for him to take a break.

"That's not possible," He shook his head. "I must remain here until Laurens has recovered, and then there is a matter of where he will be taken, to South Carolina or—"

"No, sir," The Madison insisted, and Alexander wondered in that moment how he could feel so brittle and cold being so near to John Laurens. "You must return now. Your son is ill. They say he might not make the fortnight."

_Un, deux, trois…_

_Tomorrow there will be more of us._

1872\. The year John John Laur—Philip Hamilton died—death in battle battle battle—

1872\. The year Philip Hamilton succumbed to pneumonia.

 


	3. The Flight of the Balloon

Alexander would have run.

He would have run all the way back to New York if the Madisons hadn't sprinted him out to their own stable and saddled him on the horse themselves. When the reigns were in his hands, he became animated once again, jabbing his heel into the animal's flank, bolting slow enough to catch the promises of continuing the care of John Laurens.

All those things were obsolete. He knew deep in his heart John would understand, but now was not the time to allow the heart access to the functions of his brain.

There was no noise, other than the sharp breathes of the horse—and then he realized it was himself and not the horse, leaning forward so hard his chest brushed the horse's mane. Even his own lungs forgot to breathe.

_In the eye of the hurricane, there is quiet for just a moment…_

A lot of thoughts accompanied those of Philip, his first born, an obvious favorite to a doting father who would have many things in the future to be proud of.

When he first came, and Alex could twirl a curl around his finger, he thought of John in that child's giggling face.

And then when he first swaddled him in his newborn clothes, he thought of Hercules Mulligan (to which he would later find out those very clothes were made by the tailor as a gift for missing the birth).

And then always his thoughts would travel to his future, what college he would go to, what he would study—Alexander was so eager, so very eager to teach him French so the secret conversations with Lafayette could ensue.

He never gave a thought of death until he looked at Eliza's beaming face and saw his mother when she took her last breath.

Mothers and fathers are not supposed to bury their child before themselves. That's the very reasoning he was alive, that he was shored on land while his mother was capsized in the sea, wasn't it?

_I couldn't seem to die…_

He spurred the horse faster. His son's life was on the line, Philip, could you believe that? When he left, he was perfectly fine, a healthy babbling child; and yet within days, he had succumbed to life's unnecessary cruelty—illness.

Why couldn't Alex see any warnings of it?

This wasn't a situation he could write his way out. He wanted to pretend, for just a moment, that Philip could rebound easily; but then his mother's humming was in his ears, and he wanted to scream.

The balloon slithered out of his fingers one again, but one ill-timed jump allowed it to sail into the sky without so much as a murmur in its path.

Alexander Hamilton never made it before his son, Philip, died.

* * *

John was still in Virginia when they hosted the funeral a few days later. Eliza sobbed bitterly into his shoulder, black lace covered hands scrabbling to grip his, but there was little he could do to comfort her.

He used all his savings to procure the very best for his infant child: the grandest coffin, the holiest man. No expense was spared for the son of Alexander Hamilton.

Even then, much as it was on his horseback ride, he forgot to breathe, feeling his throat burn and mutilate with pain as the coffin was lowered at Trinity Church Cemetery. Lafayette postponed his voyage home yet again to attend, carrying with him the condolences of Hercules. Washington arrived for support, but he remained glued to the rear of the mourners, his eyebrows scrunched and his face heavy with grief for the man he called his son. He wished he could whisk this burden away.

But it could never be that simple.

Burying children was never simple.

A lot of things passed in that moment through the mind of Alexander, but one broad thing stayed in strokes on the canvas. Alex worked and worked and limited the precious time he has access to his son. He himself wasted what was given to him, and now that he never gave it a second thought, he has run out of time and is left stranded on the beach he managed this far to survive on.

He would return to Virginia to bring Laurens home. After that, not a thought of legacy could be conjured, not a single thought of the future could be procured without the stifling pain and the image of Philip and the burning in his eyes to dissuade him from thinking of it again.

Yet, he would get Laurens, but after that? He wouldn't waste another moment. He could not write his way to his new opportunities; he would simply wait for them. More time to spend with his wife, and his friends, and the social life that never meant much to him as a way of soothing his guilty conscious.

Why waste time on a legacy that may surely one day die?

_After the war I went back New York, I-I practiced law law—Burr—_

_Rewind._

After the war, Alexander Hamilton went back to New York, quietly assembled his things and relocated uptown, expiring his ties with politics; and for a period, became missing in action in the war for a place in American History.


	4. Writing for Borrowed Time

It was a fight, but like any debate, John Laurens could win it as long as he had the advantage of a few pints of liquor in his stomach. It took 18 speeches to Congress, but seven years after he was shot at the Battle of Combahee River, he secured the freedom of his battalion of slaves. It was bittersweet and worth a few more pints. (He would swear he was not drunk when he appeared, but some records from the Senate seem to tell otherwise.)

So naturally, his instinct was to celebrate in New York, with Alex. The government was fostering new ideas under the shitty rewrite of the "New Articles of Confederation", and under his standards, were doing well enough that they could miss their abolitionist senator from South Carolina for a while.

Washington was President, Laurens snickered at his VP; the cabinet was filled with bickerers and complainers, but he had to blame Alex for turning down the offer of Secretary of Treasury.

He had to admit, he himself was ready to turn heels and run, but he knew the only place he could draft change for the abolitionist movement was in the boxing ring of the Congress floor. But John Laurens was a fighter and not willing to commit anywhere else but to this challenge.

New York had boomed since the seven-year lapse. It was busy and hectic, and Laurens went down the same alley twice before he realized he was on the wrong side of town.

"How the hell does Alex do it?" He grumbled, never having to stray far from the Capitol's center before.

He finally arrived at some landmarks he could recognize, allowing navigation to the Hamilton's doorstep less confusing and frustrating. (But he swears, they picked up their house and jumped across town. It was the only explanation.)

Straightening his jacket and smoothing down his curls, he knocks on the door twice, and before he could knock a third, Alex answered the door with a book in his hands, and his reading glasses perched on his nose; and John was falling in love with the man all over again.

"John?" Alexander said, phrased more of a question in his surprise.

Laurens gave a grin, tugging on the front of his jacket.

"That's South Carolina's senator to you." He teased, and a fragment of a once gorgeous smile was on Alex's face.

"I was wondering why you were so formal arriving at my house," Alex paused, his eyes combing his face, "You're even wearing your hair down. I didn't know you combed it."

"Had to look nice today—hey! Better than your greasy mess!" Alex laughed when John huffed, tugging the door open.

"Please, come in John. Eliza is off at the market today."

He entered the small modest home with the amount of grace of an elephant, nearly crashing into a table set off immediately from the door, and then slipped ("accidentally") into Alex's arms when his foot tripped on a rug, and he almost went out the door again.

"You could have warned me your house was a death trap, Alex."

Alexander rolled his eyes, latching the door behind him. "Only to you, since you seem to walk into everything dangerous."

"Makes for fun stories. Especially battle injuries."

Alex winced, his mind on other things, on a wheezing Laurens swaddled like an infant in his blankets and on the verge of death. His fingers travelled up John's chest, resting at the scar he knew was beneath, of a wound that was fatal to all but the iron built John Laurens.

"Sorry." He apologized in a short breath, feeling the fires within him shriek at such a tender touch.

It was the closest they had been in a long time, since the war when they were sharing even the same breath; and while Alex stared at his chest, he was studying his eyes and his lips and his nose, this man he loved with all his heart. Why had they maintained this separation for so long?

His first instinct (probably prompted by the alcohol) was to run outside and scream his love for him to the world and fight against the norms of society like he was prone to do—and then Alexander's eyes travelled to his own, and they were leaning, falling, falling into the abyss together as Alex clasped the back of his neck and pulled him into a kiss.

It was the first of many quick, feverish kisses, Alexander wanting so desperately to forget how to breathe and just drown in the hurricane of love. While he wore his heart on his sleeve, Laurens poured his own out to everyone else; he could feel it in the way his fingers fumbled for his hair, massaging his scalp lightly as the kiss went on and on and on.

It was like there was never a separation, no years lost between the two lovers.

"Alex…" John whispered between the kisses, his fingers curving under his jaw. "How long has Eliza been out...?"

Alex twisted his head to check the clock and cursed beneath his breath and crashed his lips once more into his companions. Eliza would return any moment now, so he would not waste another moment. And just as Mrs. Hamilton arrived, she narrowly missed a blushing John Laurens hastily stuffing his shirt in his pants and her Alexander's dreamy look with his swollen lips and fly away hair.

"Alexander! You didn't tell me John would be visiting." She exclaimed, greeting the war hero with a friendly hug and kiss on the cheek after setting the groceries aside.

Alex was quick to jump on the bandwagon of his own defense, but just as soon as he got on it, John Laurens kicked him off.

"I actually came as a surprise," The senator explained. "I just now was able to secure the freedom of all the men in my battalion."

"That is indeed a cause of celebration! I can see you've already started," She teased, attributing to the redness in his cheeks to drunkenness.

"You know me…"

"Then I hope you're staying for dinner?" She asked as Alex shooed her away when she attempted to take the groceries elsewhere, scooping them up in his own arms. John gave a small smile for the chivalry. It's one of the things he loved about him.

"I'd hate to intrude… but it's been so long since I visited."

"We insist." Alex said before he disappeared into the kitchen.

"Yes, do stay," Eliza concurred, "I'd love to hear stories of the Senate and George. Alex doesn't very much care to hear those types of things anymore."

John Laurens couldn't be mistake; he heard his Alex's voice in the kitchen, grumbling about the very mention of politics. Laurens grin could only expand, thoughts of mischievous banter plaguing customary traditions.

"Then I'd love to stay."

The day withdrew as they talked and talked at the dinner table, even as the meal grew cold under their stagnant forks and Eliza had to clear the table. Never once did they cease speaking. Even when Mrs. Hamilton proclaimed she needed to turn in early (a fact attributed to a possibly pregnancy), John and Alex simply moved the conversation to the latter's study so Alex could produce a bottle of champagne and two glasses for his more than welcome company.

While Alex pondered and studied his glass of amber fluids like the day in 1782, John simply took his like a shot glass and wiped his mouth on his sleeve.

"I know that look on your face Alex," He said, placing the empty glass on the desk.

At first, he went unheard, and then Alex glanced at him sheepishly. "I don't know what you mean, John. What face?"

"You're thinking of something big. What are you thinking of?"

Alex wondered if he was really that obvious, or if John was actually good at reading him. He was inclined to believe it was the former.

"I was just," He stopped, and it took Laurens reaching out and squeezing his hand for the record to start playing again on high speed. "I was just thinking the last time I had alcohol, it was in this very room, on the night I received the letter that you were shot."

No matter how many words he crammed into the sentence, he could not build a wall high enough to hide the face of his infant son, lost to cruelty only a few days after that moment. How foolish he had been.

His hands trembled.

He had been celebrating, blissfully unaware of what was to come. Did Philip show symptoms then, any signs he would soon die? The thoughts were winding so hard in his head that he never realized when he ended up in John's arms, on the ground of all places, hearing faint murmurs from his friend as hands were in his hair. His attention latched onto it, yanked the thread back down so at least the balloon of his sanity would not be sky born.

"It's okay Alex… It's okay…"

His vision was distorted, blurry; maybe he needed glasses more than previously considered, before he realized he was crying, dripping tears and snot right onto the new suit of John. He tried to apologize, but croaked instead, his body conceiving all kinds of grief that could never fully reach his mind.

Seven years of holding it all end really took a toll.

_But the sun comes up, and the world still spins._

"You need something to do…" Laurens still spoke in hushed tones as if anything louder than a whisper would shatter what was left of Alexander, "Come work with me, Alex. You can write against slavery... we can stick it to all those southerners. Just you and me, Alex."

And it sounded so good, so right; but a part of Alexander knew it wasn't where he belonged, as much as he supported John's views. There was something more, something greater he was to do, but it had yet to come. So, on that night in 1789, he quietly agreed to assist the abolitionist movement by writing essays against slavery.

1789\. The year Alexander Hamilton became becomes Secretary Sec—

_Rewind._

1789\. The year Alexander Hamilton became an abolitionist.

And it was through his essays and frequent meetings accompanying John Laurens that he met the celebrity sensation people couldn't help gossip about, fresh from the French scene and the current Secretary of State, Thomas Jefferson.


	5. Issues To Which the Table Bends

Alex had heard of Thomas Jefferson before, mostly from John Laurens' ramblings after particularly hard meetings as "the asshole from Virginia". Whenever they arranged to meet one another, usually two of the first phrases out of the abolitionist's mouth was "the South" and "Jefferson", to the point where he almost got sick of hearing of both.

"John," He stressed, after a particularly difficult evening that resulted in more wadded scraps then words on the page. He had grown rusty in the seven years of infrequent writing. "I almost think you're dating the man from how much you speak of him."

It resulted in a shriek and a two-hour rant about how he could never love someone who treated other humans so horribly—I mean, have you even seen his hair?

Hamilton had sunk to his desk, and needless to say, he didn't get the essay done until an hour before dawn, to which at eight he was supposed to travel with John to meet a few of his biggest opponents in government of both Congress and Cabinet; both advising against and voting out all resolutions with South Carolina's name on them.

This would be his last shot that he could not throw away, and Alexander promised to put on his best case (with knowledge also seven years rusty) for the passage of some bills positive for the abolitionist movement.

With no sleep for the past 24 hours, Alexander followed numbly behind his friend as they arrived at the designated townhouse, nearly crashing into John's back when his brain didn't register he had stopped moving.

"Sorry…" He murmured, pressing a palm to his eye and willing the exhaustion away.

And when he lowered his hand, he was confronted with the object of Laurens' most venomous hatred (even rival to that for his father), and instantly his mood soured; he felt ready to debate any word that left that cocky, smirking mouth.

"And who is this?" The very devil spoke as both Alex and John sat, the ones to procure the meeting but the last to arrive.

Alex was quicker than his friend at the draw this time.

"Alexander Hamilton," He gritted, sinking back in the chair to cross his arms over his chest.

"I'm glad you could all join us," Laurens intercepted before anything more could come of it. "And if I could be so bold, you know why I've asked you all to come. You all hold significant sway in the South."

"You would too, if you got off your equality high horse." Thomas shrugged, and Alex was ready to let the claws out and sink them into his smug face.

But John would defend himself. He always had.

"I think I have plenty of sway, considering I was elected."

Thomas snorted, "Only because you were a war hero, and everyone loves a wounded and almost died in battle gallantry. That's the only reason I think that you got elected anyway."

"Thomas," His companion, James Madison, warned. Thomas responded with a slightly quieter, "What?"

"Look, I'd fight you on that every day, but there's an agenda that we need to follow while we all have the time," Laurens spoke.

Alex wanted to applaud him. He had always seen the soldier side of Laurens, the one who acted first and talked later, the one who boldly proclaimed he would duel Charles Lee because of the words he had said; and even here, even in the face of someone who most agreeably deserved to be shot in the jaw, John was being a diplomat.

He wondered if he could do the same.

Jefferson leaned back in his chair and relinquished the floor to the SC senator.

"You said it yourself, that all men are created equal under God," And that's as far as John Laurens got before Thomas Jefferson came back thundering on the floor, much to Madison's dismay.

"If this is about another of your abolitionist amendments, forget it."

James spoke in a plainer, friendlier reprise, "This is why the Constitution failed. You tried to force your amendment, and the South would never agree to it."

"It sounds more like a personal problem against me then it is you acting out of the best interest of your state," John retorted, and the man shook his head.

"Uh, we create in the South, last time I checked. Where do you expect us to get the money from to pay for labor suddenly?" Jefferson said. "Hey neighbor, your abolition plan has some outrageous demands. Freedom for all men immediately, give them some of our lands?"

"And under the Articles of Confederation," Madison coughed, "The states retain a lot of their autonomy. Even if the amendment was to pass, the South can still veto it within the state. The plan simply cannot sustain itself."

"Besides the fact that it is ridiculous to begin with," Thomas added, but not without a jab from Madison.

"Freedom for all men, your very own declaration, is ridiculous?" Laurens rose to his feet, and suddenly the revolutionary in Alexander was storming in, the memory of Hercules Mulligan pushing to his Seabury's platform spurring him to his own feet.

"I have read the amendment, and it has some significant changes in its wording," Thomas opened his mouth, but Alexander hardly left even a breath for him to interrupt. "It is not the same document since the Constitution failed. This would allow the gradual change, of turning slaves to freemen, and if there was a national bank, the government could reimburse the South."

"But there is no national bank," A senator submitted, and the opposing party began pumping their heads so full of air that no amount of talking, no matter how eloquently, could conquer the unrealistic possibility of converting the South.

But John always liked a fight, especially against the odds. He let Hamilton argue for a few moments longer on how the policy would eventually lead to wide prosperity for the entire union before he stepped back into the ring, gloves on, and willing to throw any type of punch—legal or not—to secure this victory.

"We shouldn't be looking at this from a financial standpoint," John hissed at his rivals, to which Thomas's hardy smirk almost got reciprocated with a physical punch, "And we shouldn't be looking at this through a political lens." His eyes trailed on Alex a little too long, and in front of his adversaries too, what would they do? But nothing altered in the atmosphere, and he continued, "We should be looking at this through a moral lens."

"Moral lens doesn't run a country," Thomas said.

"Says the man who wanted to help France," Laurens retorted, to which the Secretary of State raised an eyebrow.

"Uh, wasn't that called a treaty? Where we are supposed to give something in return for help?"

"Thomas," Madison warned again, but as always, Thomas would not heed to his friend's better judgment.

"They probably provided the bandages and medications for you when you got shot anyway. You should be bowing at their feet."

"Enough!" Hamilton shouted, but the Thomas train had already left his street smarts at the station and was full steam ahead on a track of sure disaster. (A/N)

"What, your brain can't handle the politics? Or do you got a problem with us picking on your…" He hummed, "Boyfriend?"

There it was, the end. They were discovered, found out, finished. Hamilton sunk a little from the weight. Who would all know, would he tell Eliza? Would he lose John too, permanently; just as he lost his son to a barrier he could not cross?

And while Thomas cackled at his own joke, Alex hesitated too long to make a comeback without being obvious. Madison smacked his companion's thigh beneath the table, but before he could reprimand the child, John Laurens slammed his hands on the table, startling Alexander back into reality to hear his next words.

"You have insulted my good friend, Mr. Jefferson, and I cannot let it slide. Since you seem undisciplined, I hold you to your words. I challenge you to a duel."

And there was silence. No one spoke. Madison didn't even cough as if the two were already dragging pistols out of hidden drawers and giving the final countdown across that very table.

Here was the side Alex was all too familiar with, the hotheaded revolutionary who would defend anyone. He loved that side of him, but it did little to ease the sudden pool of dread dripping in his stomach, gradual at first, then exceeding in volume as the Secretary too got to his feet so he could have the advantage of height.

He cracked a smile at first, and then it faded into a laugh. Not once did that freckle face twitch. James and Alex exchanged a glance. They knew, oh God they knew, and like always their hope was hinging on Thomas's sometimes unpredictable behavior to defuse the situation.

"Senator Laurens." He lifted his cane by the bottom, tapping it to his temple and extending away as a salute.

John's eyes followed his movements, across the room, across the floor where he collected his awfully colored jacket. If there was anything predictable about the Virginian, it is one thing: he savored the opportunity to have the last say in all matters. So, not even sparing his companion a glance, he stepped out on the streets, and before he sealed the doors behind him, he ushered his response.

"You're on."

Cabinet Battle #2: Secretary Jefferson and Secretary Hamilton debate--on debate, Cabinet Battle

_Rewind._

~~Cabinet~~ Battle #2: Secretary Jefferson and Senator Laurens agree to duel after a debate about abolitionist bills in the Senate fails to find a compromise.

**(A/N: I just realized when I was editing this that I unintentionally made a Thomas the Tank Engine metaphor, but I honestly love that line so much.)**


	6. The Color of French Pistols

“You were both heated,” Madison scoffed a few days after the incident, as he watched his fellow Virginian secretary cleaning his pistol.

It was a simple ornament he brought in France, he thought with a grimace.

“You shouldn’t have made the choice at that moment, Thomas. You should retract your statement.”

Thomas flashed a wide-eyed look at him. “And give the abolitionist a victory? Never! If there’s one thing I’m not, that’s a coward.”

“If there’s one thing you’re not, it’s smart. Do you even know what you’re doing Thomas?”

“Not the faintest idea!”

Madison rolled his eyes and watched as he huffed, dropping the pistol on his desk amongst the papers he should be working on; but his mind is still wondering, dancing like late ‘80s France on the cusp of revolution. His companion saw the look in his eyes and was stuck with the terrible issue of drawing the man from his stubborn ways.

“I still advise you to retract your statement. Alexander says Senator Laurens will not back down. You need to be the bigger man.”

“Well technically speaking,” James flashed him a look, but Thomas still felt complied to finish the sentence he started. “I’m bigger than him by a few inches already.”

James released a big, heavy sigh that sputtered into a few light coughs, but luckily, he managed to catch a majority of the germs in his wadded handkerchief.

The concerned look Thomas gave him caused him to scoff again.

“I am not the one you should be worrying about. I’m not the idiot who’s putting his life on the line.”

Thomas chuckled. “You’re bitter about it, Jemmy.”

“Just as bitter as I am when you use that name Thomas.”

“Relax, alright? No need to get worked up. I’m going to win like I normally do and everyone will go home.”

Madison pinched his nose. “This is not a political debate. Someone is not coming home, so I prefer the whole matter be called off so everyone can stay alive.”

Knowing continuing the topic would result in a broken record Thomas was too fond of to dismiss, he went back to wiping the pistol clean.

Soon, it would be impossible to restore the wood fitted butt and gold-plated ornaments.

The gun would be red, entirely red, dripping red everywhere it went, spreading and saturating everything around it in deep hues of the British’s favored uniforms. No one would know the outcome of the fight until the day it happened.

_Is he breathing, is he going to survive this?_

There will be screams, the first of many to howl outside of the White House grounds. Washington would lay in blissful sleep, unaware, his body twisting and his bed creaking while pistols are firing—and he wouldn’t know at first, George wouldn’t know what happened for a while.

But he would awake to the screaming.

George Washington, first president of the United States in his 3rd year of office in 1792, rushed out to the lawn in only his night gown. The whiplash of the event still impacted him as greatly as he had been there the entire time.

He would later write. “To this day I owe a great and utter sorrow.”

_Who did this, Alexander did you know?_

Thomas Jefferson and his second, James Madison, on one side of the lawn and John Laurens with his second, Alexander Hamilton, on the other; both turned with their backs facing, the duelers’ heads locked up high, the pistol strong in John’s hand.

Alex silently pleaded, “Just like with Lee, just like with Lee…”

This morning in the year of 1792 was a well-documented event.

_I’m sorry for forgetting what you taught me…_

1801: Philip Hamilton—duels George Eacker, dies in duel duel—

_Rewind._

1792: Senator John Laurens and Secretary of State Thomas Jefferson duel.

The White House lawn would always bear the stain of red.

**Sorry for the short chapter, I didn’t want this and the next chapter to be combined. The next chapter will be a real treat, I promise.**

**Hope you enjoyed.**


	7. The World Was Wide Enough to Blow Us All Away

**This chapter is a mixture of the beginning of the World Was Wide Enough and the ending of Blow Us All Away. I will never be as good as Lin-Manuel, but I wanted to have a go. Enjoy.**

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine

This is how the famous duel will go (number one!)

John arrived first on lawn

Nervous and alone without Alexander as his (number two!)

Thomas joined him on the spot

With a smirk on his face and Madison in a cough (number three!)

They watched each other with a great strain

Anger in their eyes and pride bleeding same

John. "He's a poison to free men roots."

John's disputes die when someone shoots (number four!)

Jefferson drew first position

Grinning as Madison lay down the mission

This is a man with victory in his grasp

Or so he seems to think as he treads across the grass (five!)

Now no one knew this at the time

But it's true John Laurens wasn't supposed to be alive (six!)

James watched his love, his dread growing bigger

Watching as John calmly tested out his trigger (seven!)

Confession time? James had a thought

What if he was the one to take the fatal shot (number eight!)

Last chance to negotiate

Can't send in the seconds, time to get to dueling straight

Number nine!

Look him in the eye aim no higher

Summon all the courage you require

And slowly and calmly aim your gun towards the guy

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine

Number ten, paces, fire!

Two pistols would go off, the powder choking the silence in wonder of what bullet would find its place. Neither man moved or gave, stood rigged against empty guns and a second waiting with bated breath for the outcome of history's most famous duel.

And then the music came back, and the world jumped to life. A figure fumbled to reload, horribly messy and inaccurate but managed to get the ball in the chamber before he aimed and fired again to rectify the first shot. Then slowly, he slid to the ground.

The screams George would recount came in those moments, a mixture of a guttural screech and a half sob.

Two pistols laid on the ground, a French ornament and a worn loan from the Hamilton household, both neglected as there was frantic scurrying churning the earth beside them. The red came fast, flooding, and those who remained realized in an awful, sickening moment that out of all the rules they broke in the commandments for a duel, they hastily forgot the most important: to pay for a doctor.

As a result, John Laurens and James Madison lay bleeding out on the White House lawn, the duel's unexpecting end resulting in losses for both sides.

**kxkka: thank you so much for your comment. That's why I love alternate history so much, you could literally go anywhere with it.**


	8. The Angel’s Flight of Fourteen Hours

Alexander Hamilton was never late, and yet on this day at this particular time, he failed to stir before the crack of dawn; and as a result, he ran through the streets of the Capitol hoping to put an end to the madness, a sudden epiphany in the bliss of sleep driving him to believe he would be successful.

But before he even made it to the avenue, a man snatched him by the elbow and whispered hastily in his ear the name of a nearby boarding house.

Alex almost forgot the entire thing when he said, “John is there.”

An agonizing dread that has built up inside him has made an awful structure of fear and confusion. His lips, however, reacted first, bubbling questions upon questions. But the man shook his head; he didn’t have any more information than that.

Blurting a “thank you” as a hasty formality, Hamilton ran to the boarding house, seizing the door open. He was met with a man he knew well, a doctor who he would have chosen for any duel of his own. But his mind was spinning, and he couldn’t even think of the word without gagging.

“Where is my friend?” He didn’t mean to charge the doctor, but his long strides and desperate look made it appear so and caused the man to take a step back.

He too recognized the former revolutionary and gave a solemn nod, watching as the man jittered before him uneasily.

“Mr. Hamilton. They brought him in a half hour ago. He lost a lot of blood on the way over.”

Half an hour? Alex honestly slept that long? What was the sleep even worth now that John, his lover… he was becoming desperate, obvious, but he didn’t care if the doctor spread word over the entire continent that he was in love with John Laurens as long as he knew…

As long as he knew he didn’t sleep through his lover’s death. “Is he alive?”

He couldn’t imagine being gone again, showing up far too late as he did with Philip, to bury someone he loved so dearly. He couldn’t do it. He could not be cheated out of his goodbye again. He choked on a quiet, half sob.

“Yes. But you have to understand, the bullet entered just above his hip and lodged in his right arm.”

And yet, he survived worst, came his first thought; but his second was more bitter, more poisonous: is this where waiting for it has gotten him? The ability to do nothing as his lover died—

No.

John Laurens would live. He did it once, he can do it again. But the pessimist was controlling the puppet strings in the physical realm, causing Hamilton to latch onto the doctor’s arm, a silent plea for something and even he himself could not understand the implications of.

His good friend gave him another nod, his eyes traveling to a back room. But before he allowed Alex to escape down the corridors, he had the nasty job of attempting to smother the flames of hopefulness in Alexander.

Grimly, he examined his friend. “I’m doing everything I can, but the wound was already infected when he arrived.”

Alex could read between the lines, but John wouldn’t die. He couldn’t lose him, not after Philip. How would he live, how would he move on?

This whole matter was Jefferson’s fault.

The farthest room was dark, but yet if Alexander closed his eyes, he could remember the portrait covered walls and handmade lace of the Madison estate. Then, he had caught John in the respite of sleep.

Now, he was in the insatiability of pain.

A thin layer of sweat was what dusted his freckled cheeks now, spindling into tears of distress upon his once soft skin. Deep, straining wrinkles puncture his image, making it near impossible for Alex to remember any other range of emotion then that that caused John to grip the sheets in a white-knuckle grip and feverishly lull his head back and forth.

All in an attempt to stay alive, pessimist Alex thought.

He searched for the critical wound; yet it remained hidden beneath a blanket, beneath a wall, but watching his chest quiver with a rise and deflate with a fall was enough to add a jump to his step as he nearly bounded across the room to be at his side once again.

“John…” It did not taste of sweet relief as it once did in Virginia.

Now, it was like ashes, tacky and hard to swallow as those eyes barely lifted to distinguish Hamilton from the doctor.

“Alex…” He answered in a strained breath, his eyes flickering enough to miss the cycles Alex was going through as they broadcasted on his face.

They were a series of realizations about the situation and coming to terms with the emotions that arrived in the next moments.

“Why didn’t you wait for me?” It was a demand, but it came out as weak as a whimper. “You can’t duel without a second, you know the rules—“

And then the record shut off from once press of the button with John’s eyes. Alex was shredding himself apart on the inside from self-guilt, wishing to strangle Laurens by the neck for his stupidity. All that disappeared with that one look. He knew the answer, why he didn’t wait.

He didn’t want Alex to watch him die, if Jefferson by some grace of God could actually shoot straight.

“I shot him too…” John sighed when Alex sat on the bed, the weight shifted, and he felt as if someone dug knives into his hip.

“I’m not surprised… John… your aim is better that Jefferson’s—“

“Alex.”

He could feel his heart shattering, someone taking the time to tend to the delicate matter of ripping each string out of his heart. Was this it?

Was John Laurens going to die?

And then Alexander Hamilton began hearing the music of a piano, a deep thrum in the back of his mind of a melody he had never heard before; and for some reason, he found himself counting along to the beat.

In French.

_Un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq, six, sept, huit, neuf._

Alex was beyond the realm of caring, so quietly he slipped into bed with John. He tucked his arms around his head so he could cradle it to his chest, counting.

Fourteen hours they remained like this, Alex strongly fixated on the comforting forms his mouth made as he repeated the numbers.

Fourteen hours of John’s soft groans and pained twitches.

Fourteen hours passed, and the danger was gone; and suddenly, Alex couldn’t hear the music anymore.

**Since I’m a history nerd, fun fact: Philip Hamilton, after getting shot in his duel with George Eacker, suffered for fourteen hours before his death.**

**AttackOnDrunkCry: Shit indeed.**

**dearLORD: Agreed. Funnily enough, I learned that when John Laurens dueled Charles Lee and shot him the first round, they both started loading their pistols to fire again. They would have done it if Alexander and Charles' actual second calmed them down. So Laurens is prone to always doing stupid behavior XD. Jefferson and Laurens are a bad chemical reaction.**

**the_schyuler_sisterss: I'm so evil aren't I.**

**Happy Fourth of July!**


	9. Hear the Bells of Revolution

The next morning, when Alex read the paper to occupy himself at John’s bedside (now at a comfortable and respectable distance away), Hamilton realized John never fully explained himself.

His eyes ricocheted from the headline to his sleeping face, his stomach whittling itself into knots that will probably take hours to come undone.

_Duel on White House Lawn: Madison Dead._

Did he dream the entire mess? Who did John actually declare a duel with? But then he continued reading (a Democratic-Republican paper, bless his heart), and his fists curled up the edges.

He didn’t so much think of burning the paper as he began to tremble.

Why did he sleep through it? What in God’s name finally banished him to blissful rest at a time when it was most unnecessary?

_Thomas Jefferson, challenged by John Laurens to a duel to defend a friend’s honor (Hamilton never mentioned, but his parched throat couldn’t summon the beginnings of an argument), arrived on the White House grounds for the meeting. Senator James Madison arrived as his second, while Senator John Laurens arrived alone. Neither procured a doctor._

_To the testimony of a White House maid, the men took their places, but Madison refused to vacate the premises. As the countdown commenced, Jefferson turned on eight to fire while Laurens turned on the customary ten, getting his shot off before he received the bullet. Laurens shot missed, so in retaliation, he reloaded his gun. To this point, Madison stepped in-between the two men to end the conflict when Laurens fired again._

_Madison received the fatal blow to the chest. He could not recover in his weakened state and through the night, passed away._

Alex sucked in a breath and watched John’s face again, but the flashes came anyway. He worked with Madison—yes, he had his flaws like every man—but one to deserve a better fate would be he. It was painful, and he would cry, but after Philip, it was hard to make more tears. So softly, he folded up the paper and laid it at John’s bedside, walking to the window.

Someone had decided to spare Laurens that night and take James instead; and yet, for some reason, Alex felt bitter for thanking them for such a blessing.

He twisted his body towards the covers. He knew, deep in his heart, John Laurens should not be alive right now. But there was something he couldn’t touch, a presence he couldn’t place, something alive and real, waiting in that room for John to wake up.

Maybe there was something Alexander needed to let go.

Hamilton could not understand it, refused to believe it was anything spiritual. But for some reason, he understood subconsciously that whatever it was, figment or not, it was the one who played the piano throughout the night.

* * *

John Laurens would walk with a limp for the rest of his life. Alex returned to his home, the new location of John’s recovery. Hamilton began to dress in black, watching John silently as he staggered across the room, one step more pronounced than the other.

It made it difficult to maneuver, and to John Laurens, difficult to function at work where he was prone to standing on his desk or charging opponents.

He had lost the ability to step into his beloved ring to throw the punches; and had he been more careful and not thrown away such a shot, the future wouldn’t consider it necessary to throw another fighter into the ring in his place.

The next years came in basic diary entries; they received only a sentence or two from the prolific writings of Alexander Hamilton.

John lost his seat in the Senate for South Carolina, the once embalmed image of a war hero rotting into that of an angry drunkard.

_Sometimes that’s how it goes._

Thomas Jefferson stepped down as Secretary of State and quietly receded into the background of politics, only occasionally commenting in his newspaper from his Monticello estate.

George Washington would go for a second term, and day by day Alex felt himself growing further and further apart from John.

First, it started with arguments over topics anywhere between dinner that night to abolitionist bills that sat collecting dust in Alex’s office, all spurred by Alex’s scorn for being abandoned on dueling day and John’s anxiety for killing someone innocent.

The two could never meet middle ground on anything. It was too simple for two men with dominating personalities; but as the voice of the abolitionist that killed James Madison (and would have murdered Jefferson in cold blood as well) went cold, Alex’s grew strong.

Policies he once concocted with John became the framework for later improvements. For the first time, Alex became a diplomat, using the written word and spoken hymns to sway a public that once repulsed South Carolina’s strong verbal punches.

When George Washington secured another term as president, it was the revival of his beloved aid in the political world that prompted his choice of Secretary of State. Gladly, Alex accepted the offer and made work of the Capitol in New York.

Alex’s success only scorched the ties between the lovers faster. John constantly demanded improvements for the slaves from the man in the position of power, and though he was just as concerned about the growing issue the Articles failed to address, he had already sunk himself neck deep in an international issue: the aftermath of French Revolution and following Napoleonic Wars.

As Secretary of State, his correspondence, especially with Lafayette, would become a massive archive for study in the years to come and would set a precedence for future secretaries and their communications with foreign powers.

Eliza could proudly and quietly remain behind her husband’s ever-growing shadow, but John Laurens could not, a sour bitterness seeping into his pores. Sometimes, he would have to nip his tongue hard to still the thoughts in his head.

“I’m the reason Alex even has a job. If the duel hadn’t gone the way it did, the tables would be turned and things would be different.”

_I want to be in the room where it happens…_

Eventually, they grew apart like strings of paper mache that a child unfolds, though neither would admit it was the end. They still had nights, sweet, touching nights where Alex could stroke his hipbones and count the stars in his eyes.

But those moments became rarer as Alexander volunteered more time in his work, and John spent long unexplainable gaps of time away from home.

_Raise a glass to freedom, something they can never take away._

Guns and drums beat away on foreign shores, Americans painting the enemy in the faces of French dignitaries and British soldiers. Therefore, no one was prepared for the first slave uprising in American History, the first combined and coordinated rebellion of the enslaved people.

And no one imagined it would be successful.

War plans to ship to France were stalled in the wake of demands received at the White House.

Freedom for slaves or death to the slaveholder. The piece attained more eloquence in its mockery of the Declaration of Independence that it caused a great laughing chatter amongst the White House staff. But Alex wasn’t laughing.

In bold, dark strokes in a big enough writing he could read without his glasses was the signature of the one and only John Laurens—leader of the “Free Man’s” Rebellion.

1797: Alexander Hamilton wrote—published Reynolds Reynolds pamphlet—

_Rewind._

1797: The Free Man’s Rebellion began, and South Carolina fell in days.


	10. Counting Stars: Un, Deux, Trois

Abolitionists, crippled by a duel that killed a slaveholder or not, always had their connections.

John was no different. Procuring guns was easy. The free flow of them across the country in preparation for conflict in France made securing arms and ammunition quite an easy business. They worked first in South Carolina, John arming the slaves of his household and fanning outwards, using these people he grew up around as proxies to inspire war.

The taste of revolution was in the air again, and while Britain remained oblivious, so did the rest of America as they continued without even a hint of what was to happen.

The job was simple: secure southern lands and make demands to the government to allow freedom to all enslaved people. Other demands would be made later when the free men were in Congress. But for every white slave owner, he had a hundred slaves so the numbers favored them heavily.

If there was one thing John understood, it was war. And even in his later stages of life, it was still truly the only place he could operate at full capacity and without restraint and rationale.

Three years passed since he hatched this plan, and they were still struggling to maintain South Carolina.

But at 46 with a bad hip, John Laurens was nothing like the 23-year-old revolutionary he once was.

The Lieutenant Colonel whose brashness almost resulted in his demise at the Battle of Combahee River was supported as general of the Free Man’s Rebellion. He would visit his outposts, teetering on a crutch to stoke the fires of something he so dearly loved.

But being on the sidelines, that never much was his style. It wouldn’t be long before he would be in the heart of the battle with his men, struggling to inspire charges against the enemies.

It didn’t matter if his enemy was no longer beached lobsters with tax fetishes, but the Continental Army.

As long as he was fighting, he was still John Laurens.

_I may not live to see our glory…_

* * *

That night, as John weaved his way through South Carolina’s in crudely drawn trench lines amongst slaveholder and continental fire, Alexander Hamilton had a nightmare, one of a young freckled boy with bouncing curls; and for a moment, he wondered how much he thought of John that he should follow him to sleep.

But his unconscious awareness told him otherwise, that the young boy was not John, but Philip; and then his heart began to whimper and tears of pain years past healing sprung into his eyes.

His son, his first-born son, stood before him in a graduation gown, his soft dimpled cheeks dabbing into a smile reminiscent of his mother’s.

“Philip,” Alex choked, stretching.

But Philip slipped out of his grasp, evaporating. Desperately, he spun around on his heels, spotting an even younger boy—9 or 10 by a glanced estimate—playing a piano that his feet could not reach the pedals on. He was singing softly, but his heart already sang the tune before his ears even heard it.

Why does this feel so familiar?

“Un, deux, trois…”

Each number revealed something new, more memories that were never memories but real enough to be them. He could examine them, as the counting continued in the background.

Baby Philip taking his first steps; trying on his first suit; going to church; studying—yet his heart mourned the last one worse, the one of a young man poised with his pistol raised to the sky.

Duels were such a pointless thing, weren’t they?

He expected something, though he didn’t know what. A gunshot perhaps, the damning irony of being there for his son as he suffered another death drumming in his mind. But yet, they waited, the Philip on the piano counting one last time to ten and no further. Alex was too afraid to move.

Too afraid to lose this too.

_But I will gladly join the fight._

“I’m not mad, pa,” The dueling Philip said softly, his eyes drifting over to the man that let out a sob. “You loved him as you did me. He deserved a chance as much as I did.

The words made little comprehension in his head, only that his son, his precious son, was speaking to him. To him, that was enough.

“But I hope you won’t be mad at me now…”

“No, no, Philip. I could never be mad at you. Never.” Alex took a step forward, eager to embrace him and fearful all the same, his heart thumping heavily in his chest. “Philip, what is going on? Why do I feel as if— “

He stopped when his son shook his head. He went too far, overstepped his bounds, Philip would leave—

“I can’t tell you, Pa. Not yet,” He explained, “You will know when the time is right. So please, do not be angry.”

_And when our children tell our story…_

“Philip…?”

“He has been living on borrowed time. My borrowed time. The nineteen years are up.”

“I don’t understand, Philip, please explain—“

His feet reacted before his brain did, carrying him three steps closer to Philip—but there was a gun now pointed at his chest, and through his widened eyes he saw the tears stream down his freckled face.

His own boy, the one who would blow them all away, was aiming to shoot him.

Alex felt like crying too, but only because he could do nothing but watch those tears fall to the ground.

“I’m sorry...” Philip whispered, “I’m so… so sorry… It might hurt…”

His hands shook, and his fingers fumbled uncertainly for the trigger. Alexander felt a rush of adrenaline belt through his veins, but he stayed still so he could take the shot, knowing something bigger was at play. His mouth ached to say words.

But Philip said them for him, “I love you”, as he pulled the trigger, and everything fell to black.

_They’ll tell the story of tonight._

The Election of 1800: Thomas Jefferson, Aaron Burr, and John Adams ran for the presidency—presidency, resulting resulting resulting

_Rewind._

The Rebellion of 1800: The Rebellion failed to gain traction in the states as the Continental Army began reclaiming lost land for the Union, crushing the insurgencies as they went.

**The next chapter will be the final chapter. It’ll be a little short and sweet and will conclude this alternate history. Hope you stick around to read it.**

#### Camille: I considered writing it differently. But I read all these jokes like Philip: Dad, I'll tell them about the affair. Alexander: It's okay, I already told the world about Maria. Philip: Not that one *Pulls hair into ponytail*. And the ones with Jefferson and Lafayette, and they inspired this story. I will consider writing a story where everyone has a happy ending tho.

**AttackOnDrunkCry: That's a good thing right? XD**

**caneeljoy: Best thing about Laurens surviving: he's already having an affair with Hamilton, Hams doesn't need Maria Reynolds.**


	11. Raise a Glass To Freedom

Alexander Hamilton felt no pain at first—not until morning came, and Eliza arrived in his study, carrying a letter she clutched tightly to her chest.

It had all been a dream, a dream he had trouble grasping. Philip had shot him, yes, he remembered that. For what reason though, he had no answers; but he had an inkling that the answer lay before him.

For a moment, he caught a whiff of champagne before the air went stale and all felt cold, something he attributed to the fact that Philip’s spirit was gone. He wouldn’t share that with her, share the pain; so instead, he coated the pain with a soft smile.

“Alexander, this letter is for you,” Eliza said softly, but he wouldn’t be mistaken—the envelope was already torn, the contents already read, but his wife would not say.

It felt like he was the one who actually read it.

Oddly enough, Alex never felt like he was caught, that Eliza had finally discovered the affair through their incriminating letters. But John hasn’t written to him in a long time.

After last night’s dream, he hardly thought he could stomach it in the morning; however, he felt strangely at ease, something he never would be able to explain.

“It’s from John Laurens, I’ll read it later.” He felt compelled to say it like it was the only line that _fit_ in the situation.

He turned in his seat, but Eliza suddenly rushed forward, stopping him mid-pivot.

“Alexander.” She found her footing once again and exhaled, her hair never falling out of place. “No. It’s from one of John’s siblings.”

Alex swallowed slowly. If he squeezed his eyes hard enough, he would be back in 1782—but the world didn’t work backward, and he knew now he could no longer wait for it.

He would face the issue head on.

“Will you read it?”

And she did. A part of him already knew, already had the inkling of it. He had it back when John was dying a second time, and something was telling him to let go.

He had already read the letter a thousand times, even when he had never touched it.

This was how _it_ was supposed to happen.

The immigrant knew death didn’t discriminate, but some force begged to differ when he thought back to 1782. He would admit in his letters that every day after, he still loved John Laurens, letters that were never burned under the watchful gaze of Eliza as Alexander grew old and weak.

He would never admit, even on his death bed in his late eighties, that greed or hate or vengeance took John away from him. It was never his pride or his refusal to surrender.

It was always that battle by the river in South Carolina. John never came out of there in one piece.

His reflections wanned as Alexander Hamilton was carried into the embrace of death, on what better day than July 4th.

He felt as if he did on that day in 1776, bubbling and youthful with a need to please and feel loved. The afterlife was just that feeling, and he arrived as he imagined himself during the Revolutionary period.

First, Alexander met James Madison.

He was happy to see him, but the healthy pallor of his skin made guilt creep inside Alex’s heart. He understood now that James was not meant to die the moment he did, but before he could even open his mouth to usher a word, Madison beat him to it.

“Don’t regret the past,” He said. “What’s done is done. We have no power to change history. We can only change how the outcome will effect us.”

Wise words from a wise man who should have had more time to write them down. But he was right; there was nothing Alex could have done, present or not, to change the fate that was already decided.

“Besides,” James continued, a bemused look on his face. “It’s not as if I am alone here.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just listen.”

And he did. The mixture of horror and amusement expressed on his face was enough to get a chuckle from the Madison. In the background, some distance that was far too close, Alexander could hear a distinct voice singing about France.

“I have to know. Is he still wearing the suit?”

Madison rolled his eyes. “The horrendous colored purple one? Yes. I wouldn’t have him any other way.”

Alexander gave a small smile, but he was uncertain, hesitant at this point. James saw the hesitation and pointed him off in a direction.

“You’ll want to go that way,” He said, “And thank you. For caring about my death.”

They shook hands, an unlikely partnership between two people that once feuded; but he would much rather touch his hand than Jefferson’s. He hurried away before Thomas realized he showed up.

That’s when he saw them.

A 27-year-old hothead and his 19-year-old son were there to greet him on the other side, both as Alex would remember them had it all been as our history recorded; John Laurens as he was days before his fatal shot, and Philip Hamilton as he was hours before his duel.

It was a beautiful, breathtaking sight as once again the music of life filled the world around Alex.

Alexander Hamilton never asked what his son meant in his dream so long ago, never asked why he was nineteen here while barely an infant at death. He didn’t want to know. He was happy without the answers.

Alexander Hamilton, John Laurens, Philip Hamilton.

_Un, deux, trois._

They would toast together, the three men who by divine intervention could never enter a room together, no matter the way history was constructed.

And all was bliss.

_Raise a glass to freedom…_

**Thank you all who stayed with me on this adventure. It was a pleasure sharing this with you. Good luck on your own adventures, and remember to never throw away your shot.**


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